


Home Again

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s02e05 The Return, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:28:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a break on the journey back from Pinon, Porthos tries to convince Athos that he did the right thing for the right reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Again

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to [evilmaniclaugh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh).

It is not the presence of the bottle of brandy on the ground between Athos’s feet that surprises Porthos, even if he does have to wonder from where on earth he conjured it. No, what gives him pause is that it remains unopened. Athos himself is still, his gaze fixed upon the bottle, oblivious to the sounds of the others a short distance away through the trees, and also, Porthos believes, his own presence. Until, that is, Athos speaks.

“I was wrong.”

He is still dwelling on what happened in Pinon, that much is obvious, but Porthos knows his melancholy has roots stretching far into the past. He hunkers down, lowering himself to the ground beside his friend. “You had good reason to want to stay away.”

Athos doesn’t raise his eyes, just gives a slow shake of his head. “You said it yourself. I was a coward.”

“No.” Porthos had only said those words to shock Athos back into himself, to evoke a reaction that would prove him wrong. He hadn’t truly believed them then, and certainly didn’t now. “You didn’t turn your back on those people. You gave them the means to protect their land, their homes.”

Athos huffs a short, humourless laugh. “By ridding myself of an unwanted burden. Rather self-serving, don’t you think?”

“That’s not why you helped them.” Porthos remains vehement.

“No?”

“No. You listened to them, sought justice for them.” Just as Porthos had known he would.

“They had to resort to kidnap before I would grant them that. And even then I almost walked away.”

They may have had to resort to desperate measures, but Porthos admired the spirit the people of Pinon had shown. He, d’Artagnan, Aramis, and Treville had made it their fight as much for those villagers as for Athos. And, in the end, Athos had proven that Porthos’s steadfast belief in his nobility and honour hadn’t been misplaced. “But you didn’t.”

Athos finally lifts his head, meets Porthos’s gaze with weary eyes. “Because of you.” The corner of his mouth twitches in a small smile of fond recollection. “And d’Artagnan.”

Porthos shakes his head. “Because you are a good man.” Athos may have been wrong to ignore the pleas of his people, but not even their drastic methods of securing his help, nor the ghosts of his past, had deterred him from fighting for their cause in the end.

Athos’s smile turns sombre and his gaze slips away. “You have always thought too highly of me, Porthos.”

“And you have never thought of yourself highly enough.”

His assertion is met by glum silence, but Porthos is certain his words have made an impact, somewhere beyond the aloof exterior that guards the deep-rooted pain within. But the memories are still too fresh, too raw, and Porthos knows he will not convince him until they have placed more distance between themselves and the past.

“You should try to get some sleep. We still have half a day’s ride ahead of us.” It is the only advice he can offer here, but Porthos thinks it will help; Athos is exhausted, worn both physically and mentally, but such is his desire to leave Pinon behind he had only agreed to Aramis’s suggestion of a short rest because Treville had insisted upon it. He had known Aramis had called for the halt purely for his benefit, and would have overruled it but for Treville’s advocacy of the plan. The man may no longer be officially their captain, but Athos still defers to him, just as they all do.

Athos’s shoulders slump in a soft sigh. “I would like nothing more than to sleep, but I don’t think I shall be able to do so without that.” Athos inclines his head, indictaing the bottle in front of him with a grim resignation that veers far too close to defeat for Porthos’s liking. But Athos doesn’t reach for the brandy and that small spark of determination to not give in to the desire for oblivion sweeps away the shadows surrounding Porthos’s heart.

“Yeah, you will.” Porthos leans forward to move the bottle aside, and draws Athos with him as he settles back against the trunk of the tree behind them. A moment of confused resistance, then Athos sags against him, his head dropping to rest on Porthos’s shoulder. They sit like that for a few quiet minutes, Porthos rubbing slow circles on Athos’s back, before Athos speaks with soft regret.

“I should never have dismissed you as I did. I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter.” The sting of Athos’s earlier words has faded to nothing, replaced by the same fierce protectiveness he had felt upon arriving at the village to the sight of Athos bound and beaten.

“I just want to go home.” It’s not much more than a whisper.

“We’re goin’ home,” Porthos promises and curls his arm a little more tightly around Athos, listening as his breathing evens into the gentle rhythm of sleep, and warmed by the knowledge that Athos considers the garrison home, just as Porthos does. But it’s the people that have made it so, and Porthos can’t imagine a life anywhere else.


End file.
